Your wardrobe can comprise two to three tank tops, successfully laundered, for months on end.

Money well spent on cute sandals and pedicures.

Figs. Giant, juicy, battle-the-bees for that hanging fruit, droopy on the branch, taste the warmth of summer in your mouth figs.

So the mom and I went fig-pickin' yesterday, since I'm visiting Louisiana at the moment. Look at her go, isn't she the cutest? And by "cute" I mean "relentless."

If I had to choose, I really would not elect to land in 102º heat on a Wednesday afternoon, immediately melt, compose myself, and slink from the airplane to the terminal. I would not necessarily pick wet armpits over 'Sure' ones or a beading upper lip or a mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and mid-evening costume change just to stay dry. But at dawn, before the sun has begun its daily scorch, I will hop in the car with my mom, fight snakes and beetles and honeybees, and haul home a couple of baskets of fresh figs.

Do you like my shirt? It was my dad's. Approximately 30 years ago. It's held together by safety pins. Word to the wise: do NOT try to pick figs in short sleeves. I highly doubt Adam and Eve were slapping these leaves to their privates. Unless it was for their adhesive properties.

So take some home. Caramelize a few.

Then make your birthday cake out of it. Thanks to Miss Suzanne for hand modeling!

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About Me

Let's face it, many recipes out there look mouth-watering, but they're developed for mucho servings. What about those of us who are cooking for only one or two, but still want delicious grub? Enter the Downslicer. Here you can benefit from my (struggling) mathematical genius as I experiment with cutting large recipes down to single-size.